


security, security, security

by eyemoji



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Airport AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Polyamory, based off of that one misha collins video, bg herawell, private pat-downs, somewhat dubious airport policy, this is not how real airports work, this whole fic originated from annie showing me that video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 13:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11692572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: Eiffel gets stuck in a ridiculously long airport security line and somehow gets dragged into an undercover journalism plot that ends with him and twoveryattractive security officers in a room. Together. Alone. You can guess how this one ends.





	security, security, security

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gortysproject](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gortysproject/gifts).



> this fic was spontaneously written for annie over @gortysproject when i suddenly remembered that one misha collins airport video she showed me. i'll link the video in the end notes.

Airport security lines are long. They are even longer when you, as the sole one singled out from your group, are assigned a boarding pass that _isn’t_ TSA Precheck approved. When you, amidst your own protests and your friends’ assurances that they’ll wait (Lovelace,) they won’t let the flight leave without you (Minkowski,) they’ll rebook the whole next plane if they have to, and _yes_ , Eiffel, I _can_ technically do that (Hera,) are forced into a line so long it wraps around behind the Delta check-in counter, a line so dense that the retractable dividers strain against the forward-pressing tension of the crowd.

 

“Random,” they say it is. “Even for our most premier customers, TSA Precheck isn’t always guaranteed.”

 

The disgust in the airline lady’s voice as she looks him up and down indicates that she thinks Eiffel is the farthest possible thing from being one of the airline’s _most premier customers_ . He catches her name badge as he grumbles assent. _Rachel Young._

 

 _Jeez, I wouldn’t want to be one of the unlucky ones working for_ her, he thinks, as he inserts himself into the-- well, it can’t be accurately described as a _line,_ really, more of a _mass--_ and resigns himself to an extremely long, extremely boring couple of hours. Inch by inch, step by step, the line shuffles forward. All around him are familiar faces, a motley collection of people he’s never met but who he’s definitely seen before. He’s used   _It’s pretty quiet,_ he thinks, and it is, relatively, calm enough for him to be able to withstand the hubbub, though as Doug Eiffel’s luck would have it, that’s all, of course, about to change. From somewhere in the line in front of him-- Eiffel can’t tell exactly where; there’re too many people in between him and the source-- a group of people break from their place in line and push their way forward angrily, “looking like a pack of angry monkeys,” according to the woman next to him. She continues to give him the play-by-play he never asked for:

 

“ _Look_ at that! _Unbelievable!_ Can you believe the _nerve?_ ”

 

“ _Honestly!_ Some people!”

 

“They’re acting like they own the place!” She rocks onto her tiptoes, cups her hands, and yells over the heads of everyone in front of them, “The rest of us have to wait too, you know!”

Heads turn in their direction and Eiffel tries to act as nonchalantly as possible. The _last_ thing he needs is another delay so he can get interrogated by a pair of thugs in a dark room somewhere. The woman turns towards him, speaking eagerly, earnestly.

 

“Can you believe this? It’s infuriating, right?”

 

“Uh… yeah, sure.” He does his best to defuse the conversation before someone around them decides to report them for verbal harassment.

 

“Who taught them manners? Pushing through the crowd like that, antagonizing the security guards-- the rest of us have places to be too!”

“Yeah, we _really_ do,” he says, not leaning away from her like he wishes he could do, if it weren’t so unnecessarily mean, but pointedly not looking her in the eyes instead. It’s not that she’s acting particularly malicious-- if anything, she’s one of the people who seems to be taking this the best, with her bubbly attitude, and it does feel like she’s rightfully calling out the aggressors, but… Eiffel doesn’t want to take the chance. There are officers swarming all over the line-- mostly near the front, but a couple are fanning out more towards the middle and back, keeping the peace. Or trying to. More than one is being swarmed with questions-- _when will we get through? Is this going to hold the line back for longer? If I leave and book a ticket for tomorrow, will I get through security before everyone here?_ Whatever and all directions they’re trying to give are passively being ignored, and Eiffel has to repress a guilty grin. It reminds him of all the times Minkowski’s tried to get him to do something. The smile’s wiped off of his face by the woman leaning towards him, eyes shining bright, mouth opened as if to tell him something-- and just then he’s saved by the sound of a loud _screech_ and a murmur running through everyone in line.

 

“Attention everyone,” comes a voice, and, uh, Eiffel’s suddenly listening. _Everyone_ is listening. The voice on the other end of the megaphone pointed at the line is tired, sure, overworked, yes, more than a little irritated, definitely, but it is also undeniably, irrevocably _sexy_. This is the first adjective that pops into Eiffel’s head once he’s recovered from the initial shock; without his noticing, his mouth has fallen open just the tiniest amount, and he’s lucky the line isn’t moving forward as he stands rooted in place.

 

“There’s going to be a… bit of a delay. And yes, before you ask, this _is_ in addition to the truly fathomless amount of time you’ve already spent whiling away bickering in this line.” The sarcasm is thickly slathered on, and the speaker’s slight drawl doesn’t help alleviate its effect. There’s a pause as the speaker waits for the apparently inevitable rise in the volume level as nearly everyone in the crowd turns to other travelers and officers around them, complaints pouring from their mouths, the calm murmur of the enormous space rising into a single buzzing conversation tinged with anger. Eiffel has to fight to keep his hands at his sides, from raising them and pressing them tight against his ears until he can block out the sound. It’s overwhelming, but he grits his teeth and sticks it out, because at this point there’s nothing else he _can_ do if he wants to avoid drawing attention to himself. Then the megaphone crackles back to life, and it’s almost comical, Eiffel thinks, how quickly the space fizzles into silence. Clearly, everyone is as enamored with the speaker’s voice as he is.

 

“Rest assured,” and the apathy in his voice does nothing to assure anyone of anything, “the… _problem_ will be dealt with--” and just at that moment, the rowdy group from earlier is escorted off to the side by a group of officers. From what Eiffel can tell from where he’s at, they’re sternly rebuked by a man in an immaculately tailored suit who Eiffel doesn’t remember seeing at all before he looked over. The longer he watches, the more a cold feeling of dread settles in his stomach. He’s not sure, but he thinks it has something to do with the man’s wide, completely unfaltering smile.

 

“-- and we will get you to your flights as soon as possible.”

 

The megaphone clicks off, and if Eiffel stands on his tiptoes, he can just catch the speaker’s retreating figure as he disappears behind the metal detectors. There’s a kind of wistfulness in the atmosphere as he leaves; everyone can sense it, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. Eiffel, too, already “too tall to be human,” according to his friends, stays on his tiptoes until the last fold of the speaker’s uniform is completely out of view. It’s a completely unfounded fixation-- after all, Eiffel has no idea in the slightest what the speaker looks like. It’s really all guesswork, and he blames the monotony of standing around in the glacial line-- _seriously, Hoth’ll melt before I make it to the front--_ for his wasting time daydreaming about what the person behind the voice might look like.

 

All he can really settle upon is that it’s a _very_ pretty picture, indeed.

* * *

 

“Those of you who have flights departing within the next twenty minutes really should have planned ahead, and shouldn’t blame us for missing your flight.”

 

“Daniel, be nice.”

 

“What? I’m not wrong, you know that, Maxwell. If only Kepler’d give _me_ the megaphone for once, so I could tell all these people what he _really_ thinks of them.”

 

“Ah, but that’d only be half satisfying, wouldn’t it?”

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

“Well, if _you’re_ going to be Kepler’s mouthpiece, then you’ll never know what he really thinks of _you_ , would you?”

 

“....”

 

Maxwell looks up from her X-ray console, a mischievous grin playing across her face.

 

“Now _would_ you, Jacobi?”

 

“Oh, shut up and get back to playing with your metal detectors.”

 

“They’re not _metal detectors;_ they’re highly intelligent neural networks designed to detect suspicious materials based on past exposures. They’re like children. They _learn_ . Unlike _some_ people.”

 

Jacobi ignores the jibe.

 

“So you’re putting children in charge of national security? That sounds just _peachy_ . I’m sure Cutter’ll be _ecstatic_ to hear that one.”

 

Maxwell rolls her eyes.

 

“Okay, so they’re not your average children. They’re… a bit smarter. Think Daniel Jacobi, times ten. No, times _twenty_.”

 

“Alright, alright, genius, you don’t have to rub it in. I trust you to keep us safe, nerd.”

 

“Admit it, you love me.”

 

“Mm--”

 

“Jacobi.”

 

“Okay, fine, I love you, even if you’re half whirry.”

 

“Love you too.” Her eyes sparkle with mirth, “And for the record, I’d say my babies are worth at least twenty-five Warren J Keplers each.”

 

Jacobi raises an eyebrow as he looks back at her from his position leaning against the wall.

 

“Really? I’ll be honest, I didn’t see that one coming. He’s _brilliant-_ \- not like you, but brilliant all the same.”

 

Maxwell waggles her eyebrows.

 

“ _Brilliant_ , you say. Care to share with the class how you mean?”

 

Jacobi flushes. “You know-- oh stop trying to imply things I never said. I just mean he’s good at people. Getting them to do what he wants them to and all.”

 

Maxwell winks.

 

“You said it, not me.”

 

Jacobi sighs and pushes off the wall, but he doesn’t deny anything.

 

“Looks like the line’s started moving through again. I’d better get back to my spot. And speaking of,” he adds, “that tiny girl from earlier, the one with the big eyes and dress made of that shiny holographic material? Seemed to me like she could ask you for the moon and you’d find a way to code it out of the sky for her.”

 

Maxwell’s face is hidden by her hair as she responds with a somewhat haughty “Don’t you have a line to be getting back to?”

* * *

 

 _It’s definitely been hours,_ Eiffel thinks, as he stands just a few passengers away from the front of the line. The woman from earlier did, in fact, continue to jabber in his ear the entire time-- he now is the possessor of a myriad of information about her, including her name (Kate García,) where she’s from (a suburb of Dallas, Texas,) where she’s traveling to (Toronto,) and how she managed to get stuck in such a mess of a line today of all days (she’d been intending to visit a close friend in New York for just two days, then fly out, but a freak car accident had left the friend in the hospital, with severe hearing damage, and she’d stayed behind to help out. _“Probably a drunk driver,”_ she’d said, with a surprising amount of ferocity, and it once again took all of Eiffel’s mental strength to stop himself from sheepishly running a hand through his hair as certain memories came flooding back. This accident wasn’t him-- couldn’t have been him, considering he hadn’t touched a drop in years, but still… there’s a part of him that still twists in apprehension, in fear of ruining some more innocent people’s lives.)

 

At the current moment, she’s talking about her job as a journalist, and Eiffel has to admit, as they move to become the next two people in line to be called, that conversing with her has actually been a pretty good use of their time. It’s certainly kept him from falling into the the zombie-like state most of the others entered after the first twenty minutes or so after the extended delay.

 

“You know, rumor has it that there’s a secret routine they have for passengers that are...uncooperative. I’d just _die_ if I got a chance to write about it...”

 

Against his better judgement (and how much of that does Eiffel have, really?) he finds himself intrigued, and the conversation easily spirals out of control. By the time the desk officers call their respective names, she’s convinced him to take part in her plan, her foolhardy, unnecessarily risky plan-- but hey, what’s life to Doug Eiffel without a little foolhardiness and unnecessary risk?

* * *

 

 _This was foolhardy and an unnecessary risk, and I’m going to regret this_ so _much by the time they’re through with me_ . Eiffel gulps. He’s in a partially dimmed room, sitting in a plain metal folding chair in a starkly bare room painted a grey that reminds Eiffel of the mold covering the packet of blueberries currently shoved into the back of his fridge. The thought makes his stomach turn, and not just because the scent of the fruits is coming back to him; in front of him, imposing, stern-faced, and suddenly seeming very, very large, is the owner of the wonderful voice from the day’s earlier announcements. His name, Eiffel knows now, is Colonel Warren James Kepler, retired from the US Navy, now Head of Security at Goddard International Airport, and simply “sir” to Eiffel. He’s standing directly facing Eiffel, the thoughtful expression in his gaze less _glare_ and more simply _intimidating_.

 

He’s not the only other one in the room. Behind Eiffel stands another of the security officers, who’d never formally introduced himself, but who Keplers refers to as Jacobi. Jacobi hasn’t spoken much since he walked into the room, has just been quietly following Kepler’s directives, of which there haven’t been many-- yet. Neither of the men move. Eiffel can feel their respective gazes burning into his chest and the back of his neck as he laughs nervously. His usual affable demeanor has all but evaporated under the scrutiny of these two, and he’s not sure exactly how to feel about that.

 

“You know,” says Kepler, and Eiffel jumps, because _that voice, goddamnit,_ “This could have all been avoided if you had just been… compliant.”

 

Something about his inflection makes Eiffel shiver, as he thinks to exactly how he’d gotten himself into this mess.

 

He’d agreed to Kate’s plan mostly because it seemed like something to break the monotony of the day-- and as he’d gotten out into the loading lines for the X-ray machines and metal detectors, he managed to not lose his nerve when he’d noticed that the officer supervising his aisle was _very_ easy on the eyes. He somehow managed to take his jacket, belt, and shoes off and place them, along with all his electronics and the rest of his bag, into the provided bins and on the rolling conveyor belt without completely fucking up-- by tripping and knocking bins off the belt so that their contents spilled all over the floor, for instance-- a scenario he definitely wasn’t dreading from past experience(s). Walking over to the footprints behind the line, he waited for the go-ahead to step through-- and when it came, he definitely wasn’t prepared for the voice coming from the officer’s mouth to match that of the megaphone speaker’s.

 

“Come on through,” he said, and Eiffel repressed the few tingles skittering across his spine as he squared his shoulders and stepped through, bracing himself for the tell-tale alarm (For the plan to work, Kate had given him a metal bracelet to slip down his shirt.) Nothing went off that Eiffel could hear, though, and so it was a shock when the officer had caught him by the arm as he prepared to leave.

 

“Just a second, sir; please step to the side; we have to conduct a quick pat-down.”

 

Eiffel knew that for Kate’s little plot to work, the performance would have to be believable, so he ignored the tiny voice in the back of his brain screaming _danger!_ in favor of protesting,

“But there was no alarm!”

 

He turned to the people on the other side of the detector.

 

“You guys didn’t hear anything, right? Right? Back me up here!”

 

None of them responded, and one man in particular looked extra pained, adjusting his glasses, gripping his overcoat closer to him, and shaking his head in somewhat forced disappointment and chagrin. Eiffel pretended to be much more affected by this than he actually was, and lets a somewhat realistic anger well up inside him. _This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks_.

 

“Sir--”

 

“I _refuse_ to be touched in public. How could _dare_ you even suggest that I be groped like that? This is a total violation of my rights! I--”

 

“Alright, alright, have it your way,” said Kepler, raising his arms in a placating gesture. His eyes seemed to sharpen from their previously exhausted yet detached state as they scanned the hall, looking for something or someone in particular.

 

“Jacobi!” he yelled, and a few aisles down a man with impossibly messy hair jerked his head up, a completely startled expression on his face as he snapped to whatever passed as the airport’s version of attention. “Private pat-down in six.”

 

Jacobi immediately started moving away from his post, possibly to get room six ready, assuming that ‘in six’ was in fact referring to a room. As Kepler clicked his tongue and ordered Eiffel to “follow me,” his heart was already beginning to sink; as he led him past the belongings pick-up station and towards a door in the back wall, he’d given up all hope of leaving on time for his flight. _Min, Iz, and Hera are going to_ kill _me._

* * *

 

“Would you like a drink?” Kepler asks, back in the present, and Eiffel all but loses it because _what the hell?_ He refuses, extremely lost and hoping he hasn’t made a mistake in doing so, but Kepler just shrugs, produces a glass and a bottle out of seemingly nowhere and pours himself a glass of what, under closer inspection, is Balvenie single malt scotch. _Expensive_ , Eiffel thinks, and it’s a near automatic reaction, because if there’s anything Eiffel knows uncomfortably well, it’s alcohol. Kepler doesn’t offer Jacobi any, and it quickly becomes clear why as Kepler tilts his head and holds out his own glass to Jacobi, who takes the offering. Eiffel is, automatically, to some extent, jealous, and he berates himself for it as soon as the thought crosses his mind. _You just met the guy, and he looks like he wants to pulverize you into the concrete floor. Great choice, Douglas._

 

Kepler takes the glass back from Jacobi and raises an eyebrow at what’s got to be Eiffel’s flustered face.

 

“Now, here’s how this is going to work. Per your request, I will be conducting a _thorough_ personal pat-down and search in order to ensure the safety of everyone in this airport and its associated flights. Mr Jacobi over there will assist me. I’ll let you know where I or he’ll be touching you before I cover that area. Good? Good.”

 

Eiffel doesn’t have voice enough in him to answer, just nods his head in a jerky motion that makes him briefly seem more chicken than human. Kepler studies him for a moment longer before setting his glass down on a low table-- _was that there before?_ \-- and stepping closer to Eiffel. He bites his lip. Kepler’s twist up into an almost imperceptible smirk.

 

“Arms out, Mr….?”

 

“Ei-Eiffel. Doug Eiffel.”

 

“Pleasure.” From his earlier, albeit brief, experience with Kepler, Eiffel would have expected the tone of his voice to give off the same sardonic tone, but instead his voice is lush and rich and Eiffel will forever swear that he practically _purrs_ the word. A lump starts to form in his throat as blood rushes into his cheeks.

 

Kepler places his hands, firm and strong, on Eiffel’s shoulders, and Eiffel’s eyes widen as his weight settles into him.

* * *

 

Jacobi can practically hear Kepler think the words _this is too easy_ as he molds poor Douglas Eiffel into exactly what he wants him to be-- in this case, a blushing mess. Kepler even manages to make patting down his _arms_ into something at least semi-lewd. Jacobi has a great view of Kepler’s smirk as he slowly moves his hands across Eiffel’s shoulders and down the length of each of his arms; he lets out a slight snort as Eiffel’s arms tremble. He highly doubts it’s from keeping them up in the air, considering they haven’t been up for all that long.

 

Kepler catches his snort, though, and phrases his next question with his eyes: _As if you wouldn’t do the same-_ \- didn’t _do the same the first time--_ and Jacobi swallows down the retort that immediately springs to mind, but not the corresponding blush, and he grits his teeth when he realizes Kepler’s done it again, played him like a first fiddle without even having to lay a finger on him. He blinks twice to clear his head and comes back to Kepler running his fingers lightly over Eiffel’s biceps, in a move uncharacteristically unsubtle for him, but it seems to be working on Eiffel, who’s gone through at least six different shades of red by now. _He hasn’t even_ done _anything,_ Jacobi thinks, and he knows he should be used to it by now, for utter strangers to take one look at Kepler, or hear him open his mouth for about half a minute (any longer than that, in Jacobi’s experience, is just painful to listen to,) and fall head over heels in-- well, not love, but _something_. Lust? Is that the word?

 

Possibly, but jealousy has never gotten Jacobi anywhere, and quite frankly, he’s not sure what exactly it is about him that’s gotten him this far already, far enough to secure this job, far enough to be Kepler’s unofficial right hand, far enough to be invited into his bed. And is this what he should really be thinking about, in the middle of an interrogation session with an unarguably attractive man, alone just him and _him_ and Kepler? _Alone,_ his brain repeats, but it’s hard to process, given the fact that Eiffel’s _right there_ , certainly not invisible, what with the particular brand of scarlet his face turns as Kepler drags his hands from his arms to hovering just above his chest.

 

“Chest next,” he says, nodding towards Jacobi, “and Mr Jacobi will take your back.”

 

They both ignore the hitch in Eiffel’s breathing as their four hands make contact.

* * *

 

Eiffel is quickly coming to the conclusion that there’s nothing he’d rather be doing right now than standing here, in this very secluded room, while these two very attractive officers pretty much run their hands all over his body. Unless, of course, another option included doing said officers themselves. It’s a strange amalgamation of sensations, to have Kepler at his front and Jacobi behind him, but it’s certainly not _unwelcome;_ if anything, he’s finding he’s liking it a little too much. _This is a security protocol; they’re not planning to ‘take you’ anywhere except possibly the nearest jail cell, if they think something’s off_. Still, it doesn’t stop him from (unconsciously) closing his eyes every time Kepler’s breath ghosts across his skin in just the right way or Jacobi’s warmth builds up at certain spots before spreading across his entire back.

 

With all the attention, including Kepler striking up some light conversation, possibly to distract him, possibly to glean some useful information from him, it’s hard for him to remember how he got here or what exactly is so important that they need to get this over as quickly as possible, as Kepler keeps telling him, though the movement of his fingers against Eiffel are still just as slow and steady and powerful as they were when the pat-down started. _It’s either all a dance or a giant euphemism,_ Eiffel decides. _Their movements are too pretty to be anything else._

 

And it’s true, although he doesn’t know it; Warren Kepler doesn’t usually take this much time or put this much effort into checking out any one passenger, and he certainly doesn’t usually involve Jacobi. No, there’s something different going on here, and all three of them know it, even if none of them are brave enough yet to admit it. Luckily for them, fate seems to have other ideas, as Kepler’s fingers don’t catch the bracelet shoved down Eiffel’s shirt, even with the precision and deliberation he puts into the search. The reason for this becomes clear pretty quickly when Eiffel shifts, transferring his weight from foot to foot, and feels something sliding down over his stomach. He covers up the gasp that slips out of him on reflex with a couple of coughs, and apparently Eiffel is a decent actor after all, because Kepler pulls his hands off of him immediately and reaches around him to support his back.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and his voice is surprisingly soft, almost… _tender_. This isn’t a voice that he should be using in the middle of an interrogation and he knows it and Jacobi knows it and Eiffel knows it too, however subconsciously. Jacobi clears his throat, and although Eiffel doesn’t catch it, when Kepler meets his eyes, they play through a lightning-quick conversation by glances alone. It goes something like this:

 

Jacobi: He clean?

 

Kepler: Yes.

 

Jacobi: You sure? The detector _did_ go off…

 

Kepler: Mr Jacobi, are you implying you know how to do my job better than I do?

 

Jacobi: No, sir. Just-- no. Sir.

 

Kepler: Good. The machines are notorious for false positives, no matter what Maxwell claims about their developmental ability, and if he _does_ have something, it’s probably an extra key in a hidden pocket or a hidden piercing or something along those lines. Trust me, I know his type.

 

When Jacobi swallows, his tongue feels thicker than usual as he tries not to think about what sorts of hidden piercings Eiffel could have.

 

Jacobi: What’s the verdict then?

 

Kepler: I say we put it to him.

 

Jacobi: ….

 

Jacobi: Alright.

 

Kepler: Good boy.

 

It’s a good thing Jacobi’s situated behind Eiffel, because he has a sneaking suspicion that were Eiffel to turn around and look at him, his face would be just the shade of flaming red that Eiffel’s had been earlier as Kepler’s hands had trailed down over his stomach.

 

“Mr Eiffel,” Kepler says, in his lazy drawl, an equally lazy smile slung onto his face, “the two of us have a proposition for you.”

 

Eiffel blinks.

 

“You- you do?”

 

Kepler nods, taking his time to continue, “Our preliminary investigation suggests there’s nothing particularly dangerous on your person, that smile notwithstanding.”

 

“Wha-?”

“However, I feel, and Mr Jacobi agrees with me, that a second, more…. thorough search would be… beneficial. The choice, however, lies completely with you.”

 

“I don’t get it,” Eiffel says, head whirling as he tries to connect the dots in a way that makes sense, “Why would you let me choose if I’ve been interrogated enough? And what was that about my smile--”

 

“This _is_ a proposition,” Kepler repeats, a cool edge to his words. He takes one step backwards even as Jacobi takes one forwards so that his torso is pressed right up against Eiffel’s back and his lips slot perfectly into the dip of his neck.

 

“Shall we continue?”

 

“Oh. _Oh,”_ and this is a dream come true-- “Uh-- _yes, please_.”

 

Kepler’s lips twitch up into a proper smile as he steps forward and places his hands on Eiffel’s hips.

 

“At least one of you has manners,” he mouths to Jacobi as he runs his hands across the space just above Eiffel’s waistband and then continues downwards as he slides to his knees in order to run down across his legs. Jacobi makes a face, but it doesn’t last for long as he wraps his arms around to Eiffel’s front and slides a hand up under his shirt.

 

“Hold still,” he breathes against the back of his neck, and the resulting shiver makes it all worth it as he leans in and presses a kiss to the spot where his breath landed.

* * *

 

Jacobi’s breath is warm, but his hands are warmer as they explore the space between Eiffel’s shirt and his skin. He lets his fingernails drag over Eiffel’s chest, and so begins the game of who can draw out the best sounds from “that pretty little mouth,” as Kepler murmurs, later, running his thumb lightly over Eiffel’s lips.

 

They take a long time to finish [the game.]

* * *

 

 

Eiffel leaves the room a significant amount of time later with a weight lifted off his shoulders, some new marks left behind in its place. His belongings would all be sent ahead, Kepler had assured him, so he walks out of the security area with minimal accessories, including his phone, which has seventeen missed calls and two new numbers.

 

When he finally stumbles upon Minkowski, Isabel, and Hera, it’s almost surreal. They pull him into a hug, explain that their flight got cancelled so he didn’t miss much anyways, ask if he’s feeling alright-- _you’re really flushed, and you seem kind of out of it…are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?_

 

He doesn’t explain. How could he? But, looking at his boarding ticket with a renewed energy, he remembers the last thing Kepler and Jacobi had said to him, how they’d asked if they could see his boarding pass, how they’d wondered aloud exactly how a handsome man like Doug Eiffel would react if they just… happened… to be on the same flight.

 

“After all,” Jacobi had said, with a teasing wink, “airplane bathrooms are _just_ big enough.”

 

 _Everyone_ had gone red at that. Just imagining it…well...  
Eiffel's nearly as breathless again as he'd been less than an hour ago, and he has to fight to stop any physical signs of his...encounter from manifesting on his face.

 

A light smack from Lovelace brings him back to earth.

 

“So? What’ll it be? Pizza? Or… pizza?”

 

The smile he gives her in return is dazzling even by Eiffel standards.

 

“I’m thinking… pizza.”

* * *

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 5:30 pm**

jacobi dont forget the pizza

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 5:31 pm**

and if you put pineapple on it youll wake up to a very murderous robot

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 6:37 pm**

where are you

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 6:38 pm**

tell colonel sugardaddy im more important than him

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 6:41 pm**

ok sorry but hurry tf up you are my dinner

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 6:58 pm**

youre the worst but bc of you i have a date now ig we’re even

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 6:58 pm**

and yeah, its hologram girl

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 6:59 pm**

we’re going to dinner & i’m bringing back leftovers just to eat in front of you

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 7:01 pm**

youre the worst

 

**Alana Maxwell, at 7:02 pm**

stay safe love u and all that shit

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this is unedited also i had a version of the ending where we come full circle and kate and lovelace maybe have a spark or two but it's p late/early in the morning and also this is already over 5k anyways hope you enjoyed!
> 
> the "airplane bathrooms are just big enough" line was a joke line directly quoted from @sasston  
> the misha collins video this was quasi-based on can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPn30BGh6ac
> 
> find me @justasmalltownai on the hellsite


End file.
